Summarily Speaking
by Greyella
Summary: Narcissa, Hermione, and an oblivious Harry Potter accidentally convene over ice cream. Nuanced Narcissa/Hermione prettiness. Post-war, slight AU. One-shot for now, but may continue.


**Author's Note I :** A gifty for _beforeyouspeak_. Belated, but hopefully bespangled.

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 _What makes night within us may leave stars.  
_ ~ Victor Hugo

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Summer split like a lemon, the sun hot and yellow, the drinks cool and mellow.

 _Florean_ _Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour_ was as faded and wonderful now as it was in their schooldays. Harry remembered it quite fondly and the grand reopening was a long time coming — Hermione hadn't needed much convincing to revisit their standing order: melon-mint sorbetto for her, Butterbeer float for him. Florean's daughter Flora did the place a good justice but without removing all traces of dark magic. Her father's kidnapping was part of Diagon now, just like the marigolds planted on the parlour's boundaries. A small miasma of residuals still hung over the place, the gentle pall was comforting to those who sought to honor without purge.

After the war, sunshine had eventually returned, but the wizarding world remained out of place for approximately four more revolutions. It was another five before memory felt less like trauma and more like past (though still horrid and decayed like youthful funerals).

Hermione could still smell the peat.

The pewter of her spoon was cool and she eyed the small crowd in the sun, mint flooding her tongue. Harry wasn't uncomfortable with Hermione's afternoon spirit, just frankly surprised to see her in something so light as a sundress. Minerva had verbally eviscerated the boys shortly after the war, after some uncouth comment made about her long sleeves and dark fabrics. Harry didn't touch the subject again, after a score of owls delivered as many books onto his flat floor. He'd been horrified at the content, but more than understood McGonagall's anvil point — Crucio had irreparable effects on the soul.

It's not as if they weren't all tarnished to some sordid degree or another. Hermione however, had taken the brunt of the patina.

The Golden modifier had been dropped from Trio years earlier, buried as an expectant epithet no longer warranted. And Harry was reprieved when hope no longer grew or withered on the back of his existence. To his relief, magifolk found a way to resilience again—in Europe at least—without the need for adolescent chiefdom. Only short years after the Dark Lord fell, a stark terror struck the United States, opening up a whole new sort of focus for the United Kingdom. Harry spoke of it now, picking at Hermione's thoughts but regretting the shadow on her face.

"We saved the world instead of ourselves, Harry." Her lips thinned like the Forest of Dean, full of past tents and strained friendship. "Don't doubt the Ministry's alliance to MACUSA, but surely you understand that our aid is also escapism." Her tone drifted. "The Americans have a long war ahead."

He'd palmed her cheek briefly, wishing her eyes unclouded, free from the blooms of wartime. Hermione shucked off his understanding, redirecting his efforts to reforming Ron, who'd taken up an odd fondness for screamo music at inappropriate times (she'd have far preferred 70s classic rock or 90s alternative). He and George did more than a fine business, their joke shoppe benefiting from muggle influences (even if perpetually several years behind the trends). Neither Harry nor Hermione had expected Ron's footsteps to align with his father's, but the foolhardy boy had smoothed over into a respected Weasley with a head for commerce. And a boyish fascination for muggle artifacts.

Then again, Harry hadn't expected Hermione's elusive one-eighty.

Granger remained fiercely devoted to academia, having spent a few years in the muggle realm obtaining a chemistry master's before resuming in their world as Minerva's apprentice. No one was surprised by either of these developments. It was a more nuanced change, Harry thought, that spoke to her outstanding scars and hells. Hermione's verbally effusive ethics had traded for a sharp thoughtfulness and an aversion to rehashing the past, good or bad. She wasn't any less his sister, but there was a harshness to Hermione that smelled a lot like screams in Malfoy Manor. Harry didn't begrudge her longer silences, though Ron definitely was passively sore at her lack of romantic interest.

He moved on, but the could-haves lingered.

She and Ron had drifted apart, in the way adult friendships require more than circumstance and drama. Predictably, Ron was resentful of Harry's indelible presence in Hermione's life. Harry and Ron never had the sort of relationship that spoke of deep things; traversing hell together seemed deep enough for Ron. The shared camaraderie never left, their mutual fondness deep-seated. They remained mates and brothers-in-law, of course, but unpredictably Harry found Draco's company more promising these days. Hermione and Ginny approved of their budding camaraderie and that was enough opinion for Harry. When he wasn't marveling at his pregnant spitfire of a wife or chasing down madmen wannabes for the Ministry—or his own biological terrors at home—his time was often spent with Hermione. Despite his disquiet at the casual demons she wouldn't speak, Harry found her presence calming, much as she always had been; his steadfast kin in the crisis of worldly things.

Harry preferred straw over spoon and slurped his float happily and loudly.

The witch appreciated his boyful approach, the man as much a boy from a decade ago. Grateful for chosen family, Hermione wasn't upset that Harry had prodded her out of reclusion today, even if his meddlesome manners twinkled too familiarly in eye. Sometimes she saw flashes of the next hundred years — the boy-who-lived a wizard far better than his beloved and flawed benefactor. Like Dumbledore, Harry had political leanings, but ones without guile. He was situated uniquely in their world, his authority saint-like and annoyingly unquestioned. Hermione was glad then, that Harry was Harry and not some wolf in sheepish ropes.

She wondered at her own place, history not withstanding. Much as Hermione loved her mentor, Minerva had no intentions of sequestering the witch in Hogwarts for a lifetime career. It was an unspoken therapy of sorts, Hermione knew. But the additional credentials only added clout and Minerva's overt favour certainly wasn't a downside. It was a formidable match, one the public exalted. But the emotionality was tenderly private, fittingly so. The parental surrogacy didn't escape Hermione, but it filled a desperate necessity for them both. It was Minerva who held her on the worst nights, when the nightmares came raping and the screams came a'scraping.

The toll was pricey.

Hermione had her far share of nighttime fumbles, sure, but beyond familial hearths, she hadn't had the stomach for romantic starts. The public could go on wondering about Hermione Granger's heart.

Skeeter was well muzzled and the media had exhausted their torrid steam of gossip. Not that the Prophet didn't try to forge ahead. But the paltry breadcrumbs were lacking and society wasn't so keen on half-assed truths anymore. It would swing around again, of course, but Hermione figured the Trio had a pass until the anniversary gala next May, at the ten-year mark. She and Harry continued to enjoy the strange media lull. It allowed life to breed in the sky-lit shallows…not just the deep dark gallows.

Though, the gallows remained deep and full of litanies. This place was touched.

Hermione relaxed by half in her patio chair, the latticework old and pleasant under her thighs. The juxtaposition of the happy day and the mutterings of leftover evil were evocative. Her magic buzzed and she breathed a bit too loudly, knowing that Harry was aware but wouldn't comment. He watched her under the Sunday sun, their words sparse but comfortable as they sat. It wasn't vigilance, anymore, that coated his participation in these sessions. Concern though, always. She let the sorbetto sooth her throat, the tingles minty in her otherwise empty stomach, the lingers of dark magic comfortable in a way Harry knew she'd appreciate. Hermione needed the nexus. He wasn't unaware of her needs, even if Ron would have horrified at her tethers to such things.

Yes. Crucio had soul marks.

Sun on her face, Hermione breathed in the aeromagic, her lungs quivering pleasure at the mix of dark on light. Her eyes were shut as they roasted pleasantly in the sun. She could feel the ugliness of Florean's long ago abduction, clear as the blood on his bashed in temple. It was a pleasant dance with the charmed marigold border of the ice cream parlour, the reparation magic Flora had instilled in the slated patio, and the handsome glass panes over the serving counter.

He lazed in the sun with her and knew her magic was all purred.

Hermione had a peaceful look about her face and Harry didn't begrudge her the nirvana, however unconventional. She drifted in some neutral place, her core magic free from conflict. Hermione shifted slightly in the heat, basking like cat but without her Animagus scratching out.

And then heat rose within her, far too seductive to be accounted for by sun.

It started in her chest, like arousal.

Her raspy gasp startled Harry, who'd been lazily reaching for his float again. The noise struck him jumped, and the straw missed his mouth in lieu of going up his nose. Sputtering at the nasal ridiculum, Butterbeer froth sloshed on his lap and spritzed everywhere. Making a makeshift napkin of his arm, he saw Hermione's face shift before he heard those fated cerulean words.

"Miss Granger. Mr…Potter." The drawl went with the sunlight.

"Malfoy," Hermione breathed shakily. Her cheeks flushed with the interruption and her eyes pierced open. "Mrs. Malfoy," she amended. The blonde's magic entered her inscape, disturbing Hermione's underwhelmed haze in these postwar days.

Harry blinked at immaculate Narcissa in the flesh.

"Black. Narcissa Black," the councilwoman corrected, less a permission and more so a catalogue. Her tone drawled an amused concern at their silence. She quirked an experiment at Granger. "Clearly Potter has an inability for formality."

"Draco assured me that you were nicer that him," Harry took the torch and touted genially, "but I think he's been had." His redirection was smooth, but not subtle, telling Narcissa what she needed to know.

Hermione didn't do well with…interruptions while recentering. She managed to avoid eye contact with either of them. Harry found Hermione's shaking hand under the table. He squeezed and sent a small soothing charm through her fingers. The magic wasn't well-hidden, Harry seeking functionality over nuance. Hermione didn't fight him on the calming, though her teeth gritted at the sudden imbalance. She did however flush at their unexpected audience, the pull of Madame Malfoy's magic curious but thrilled. Hermione's magic fluttered a reception back by accident.

Narcissa's chuckle was low and far from unpleasant.

"Oh such lies are charming and appalling for a Gryffindor," she said, "but I assure you, Mr. Potter, _nice_ wasn't the adjective he used."

She wasn't wrong.

Perhaps it was the sunlight, but his mate's mother was oddly approachable today. They had crossed paths on many occasions, most amicable. But the past year or two had seen this incidence more frequently, quite reasonably, as his alliance with Draco grew. He was fond of the witch, cold and witty, in the way ice cubes were excellent shivers in a heat storm. Harry stood as was custom, his head bowing respect toward Narcissa Black, albeit not without nuance. The witch inclined her head and respect, Mona Lisa on her smile.

The so-reclaimed Madame Black held a very specific place in Harry's heart. Her role at the end of the war was crucial, regardless of her singular and maternal aims. His mother had done the same after all. The Potters might have taken a moral stand, but for Lily Potter, it would have been enough…enough to die if at least her son lived. Would it only that women ruled the world, perhaps fewer children would perish in better thought out wars.

It'd taken the fair share of the decade, but Harry and Draco had repaired bridges into a tentative acquaintance with the early trappings of friendship. Ron wanted nothing to do with it, but at had least starved off active murder attempts. In some ways, Harry found a solace in Draco's flexible understanding of their childhood. Ron had never understood greys. And these days, Harry suspected that Hermione understood greys best of them all.

Pleasantries with Potter exchanged, Narcissa's eyes shifted to Hermione, assessing this sudden and presented opportunity.

Madame Black was beyond his comprehension to begin with, so instead Harry watched Hermione's face, displeased by his inability to read her expression. It seemed stuck somewhere between agitated and…and something he couldn't identify. Like Thestral warding, Harry was unaware of the fetters building between the witches (this magic not his to find). But it didn't seem to deter Hermione's sudden and unexpected contribution.

"Nice," Hermione murmured. Her eyes lifted up to those calculating blues. "It wouldn't be my choice either, Madame. There are better words." Her speech took less effort than usual, and her voice reflected that.

A look pooled in Narcissa's eyes. Harry's skin prickled and but he didn't mark it as malevolent.

"That there are, Miss Granger," the pureblood said, her voice firm and gentle. She approached Hermione, noting the dilated eyes and scent of magic in the air. Knowingly, Cissa appraised the woman, far more interested than before. "I am many things, but I certainly agree with you over your Mr. Potter." She leaned down, feeling the witch shiver as their cheeks bussed the cultural nicety. Not out of realm, Narcissa's lips brushed the same spot, her thumb following. "You're as messy as my son, Mr. Potter," she whispered, her tone warm on Hermione's ear. Quick as the heat came, she pulled away, her hand too…exposing a wayward froth of Butterbeer on her thumb.

Harry colored but shrugged an apology at Hermione.

"Next weekend then, lunch, salutations and all." Narcissa said expectantly.

Hermione managed a pulled expression but not words. Madame Black was thrilled when instead it was the witch's magic that snatched at her own.

"The birthday party, Hermione," the blonde commanded. "Surely Draco sent you the invite."

"Scorpius is turning one," Harry supplied, his voice faint and unsure of the last thirty seconds.

Hermione's face smoothed over, caution her main event. Intrigue her second. She saw Narcissa's acknowledgement. Despite herself, Hermione marveled at the woman's control of subtly. This time her voice was more like herself.

"That would be…"

"Nice," Madame Black finished for Hermione. "More adjectives to…come, I'm sure."

The familiarity of the smirk ached in the muggle-born's stomach, and they both understood what it was and what it wasn't. Harry looked between the two, but the moment changed, as Hermione winced. Narcissa noted that the café had filled up, the ambience…cheerier than before.

"I've a garden, darling," Cissa murmured casually, slipping her travel gloves back on, despite the heat. "Harry and Minerva have done a fine job, but I think…" her eyes swept Hermione's face, her leathered finger brushing the witch's chin. "I think you need more than you let on." Her face didn't change.

"Madame Black," Harry snapped, despite his fondness for the matriarch. "Leave i—

"Please," Hermione whispered. "I—"

"Noon, next Sunday." Narcissa silked, her hand lingering. "Your words withstanding or not." She nodded fondly at the wizard. "Mr. Potter, you're better looking with your mouth closed. Miss Granger," she said easily, her eyes raking over the witch. " _Nice_ doesn't nearly describe."

Narcissa cupped the woman's cheek briefly as Hermione blushed. The blonde chortled low to the bone, before she apparated and winked out of sight.

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 **Author's Note II:** R & R. _How can I be substantial if I do not cast a shadow? I must have a dark side also If I am to be whole._ ~ Carl Jung


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